Finding A Way Home
by wistfuldreamer86
Summary: Post s4: Lucas and Peyton drifted apart over time. Dreams died and fears returned. Two years of seperation doesn't change their hearts. This is a series of three oneshots that explore these themes in sweeping, poetic language. Season five as I see it.
1. Unanswered

**Title:** Unanswered

**Pairing:** Lucas/Peyton (OTH)

**Summary:** _But his e-mails went unanswered and he doubted she was ever going to click back in response to the only words that came to his otherwise cluttered mind. It was almost as disconcerting as the phone calls she ended abruptly, the worn excuse of "I'm busy" didn't have the sharp edge it used to._

**Word Count:** 836

**Warnings:** Spoilers up to the end of season four and takes place sometime after.

**A/N:** I based the actions of Lucas and Peyton based on personality traits and situations that have occurred on the show. So if you have any questions about why they did what they did feel free to ask. I plan on writing a series of post season four fics that take place in that time leap that tie together in some way, whether it's an alternate to what could have happened in this particular piece or an elaboration on it. With that said this can stand alone as well as the others to come. Please leave feedback, it's a writers' crack and it will help motivate me to post more of these.

---------------------

_I love you._

_I miss you._

_There's nothing more to say._

The words blink red on the screen. A stark contrast against the snow-white page they're sprawled across. The only change is the blinking black line of her cursor at the end.

A sigh and a bite of paper thin lips. Before the e-mail is deleted, lost in a pile of invisible trash that can only be felt in the dull thudding of her heart against her rib cage.

-

The words burn across his screen, the same three lines he has been sending her for the past two months. He had tried to forget them, but they were imbedded into his brain now.

Sometimes he woke up from a dreamless sleep, his mouth dry from the mumbling of the words that pounded at the inside of his skull. Insistent.

But his e-mails went unanswered and he doubted she was ever going to click back in response to the only words that came to his otherwise cluttered mind. It was almost as disconcerting as the phone calls she ended abruptly, the worn excuse of "I'm busy" didn't have the sharp edge it used to.

-

_Hi…_

The word is so small she has to squint to recognize the italicized letters split across her screen. She knows the username; there is no mistaking the plain LEScott3. First and middle initial. Last name. High School jersey number. Normally she'd smile and tease him about how boring and unimaginative he is. Was that the best the great Scott could come up with? But they had passed comfortable and familiar months ago, when she extended her summer internship in L.A. into something more permanent.

The word flashes at her, beating against the side of her heart. She quickly signs off, the screen goes black.

She knows that she's the only one who judges her for pushing him back out as quickly as she had held him in.

-

_**InsideMyHeadNOFX**__ has just signed off._

He remembers her crooked smile amidst the broody red lipstick painted across it. The way her laughter had tinkled across the space between them, not as harsh and grinding as he expected it'd be. The hot metal of the truck door he leaned against as he told her things he had never told another soul. The words escaping his mouth just as easily as she stole his heart.

He wonders if she'll ever remember to give it back.

-

She spins a silver ring around the knuckle of her thumb, the worn edges getting caught in the ridges. The metal blurring together into something that shines almost golden.

_It's a promise Peyton_, he had whispered into the curls that always tickle over the edges of her ears. The band slipped easily over her knuckle, the flimsy metal conforming to the dents and flaws of her finger.

_Of what?_ Her breath had fluttered into the still summer air, thick and heavy with the syrupy heat that only existed in the Carolinas.

_That I'll wait for you, no matter how long it takes._ His words from long ago had filtered into her hair, the weight and double meanings not lost in the moment. Silence spread between them as her fingerprint pressed into his, like an oath of blood without the red liquid.

Her finger stills as the memory fleets from the recesses of her mind, a lump replacing the exterior of her heart.

-

Last time she built roadblocks across her heart he knew he deserved it. Even if it had radiated pain across his soul, he had taken the brunt.

He was doing it again, but this time he didn't know why. Their hurried, quiet, shallow conversations only chipped along his resolve. Distance between them was longer then the space between his thumb and forefinger.

One more try. That's what he always tells himself every time he picks up his phone.

-

**STOP IGNORING ME,** _Peyton._

The letters shape like blocks across the screen of her phone, the tone only gentling at her name. It only grates along her nerves along with another disappointment from her time in this town. Every day ended and she never felt like she was living the dream. The one he had pushed her towards had only lead to more grief. Her heart was sore and sick of it all.

Her phone snaps shut with a loud and final click.

-

He doesn't call anymore. He doesn't e-mail. He doesn't IM.

It's nothing. Hollow, wide, and empty. His life before her and his life after her feels the same.

They both were paradoxes of unhappiness and he hadn't known the illness existed until…

Three decisive clicks against his door and she's there, curls as golden and long as he remembers. Her face more drawn and haggard.

"I love you and I miss you," but her voice was the same, the same false bravado to hide the shaking insecurity, "There's nothing else to say."

His lips crush into hers and he forgets to answer.


	2. Roads Traveled

**Title:** Roads Traveled

**Pairing:** Lucas/Peyton (OTH)

**Summary:** _Something inside her tightens at the thought and the desire to stay is as strong as her pull to leave. But like the words staining her flesh, there's no choice. They'll blacken the water in the drain and when she looks down her body will be clean, only traces of what was once there left behind._

**Word Count:** 1,538

**Warnings:** Alludes to plotlines at the end of season four. Takes place sometime after the finale.

**A/N:** This is a companion piece to _Unanswered_ but it can also stand alone. I wrote it as a sort of prequel and I plan on writing one more piece in this time frame. I'd love feedback on this, I worked hard on it so I hope the emotions I tried to capture come off in a clear and pretty way. Thanks to those who reviewed the last piece, it's greatly appreciated.

----------------

The taxicab swerves and she has to grab the edge of the seat to keep from falling. Neon lights cut jagged patterns across the length of her leg.

The cabbie yells something in a foreign language, harsh like a curse slitting at the sensitive tips of her ears. Everything sounds like that now.

She looks out the window and the darkness shields her face. Everything feels like that now.

-

It's August in New York City. And she's two years younger, her hair is longer, curls straggle down her back in heavy ringlets. The tips dark, like they had been dipped into the inkwell he kept on his desk. To keep the spirit of writing alive, like the greats he admired. Her CD's and vinyl covers litter his desk, a touch of modern love amidst the blackened sheets of paper lined across the antique wood.

She lets him etch poetry into her skin with a felt tip marker. Black and thick at the tip. The soft but pointed edge brushes across her skin in rapid but neat letters to form words she can't read. She's his muse, that elusive creature that is there one minute and gone the next.

The light cuts through the blinds to glare across the writing, but his hand never fails him. Only steadies as quiet sighs spill from her lips, turned up at the corners. It's sensual and it's erotic, being the source of his creativity. And in ways she feels like he created her, that without the pen stroking along her body, without his heart filling her hands, without his belief spilling through her veins she wouldn't exist.

Something inside her tightens at the thought and the desire to stay is as strong as her pull to leave. But like the words staining her flesh, there's no choice. They'll blacken the water in the drain and when she looks down her body will be clean, only traces of what was once there left behind.

-

She's zapped back forward in time as the taxi sways to an abrupt halt. Money that dirties the edges of her fingers is passed into the calloused hands of the driver before she's left, abandoned on the sidewalk that leads to the building she lives in.

It's Los Angeles and the lights shine more brightly then they did two years ago. They're unforgiving and blinding, less welcoming then the twinkling lights of Times Square. The artist in her had moved then as she looked over at him, a twinkle that only he'd understand filling her eyes. Her fingers threaded between Lucas', he held onto her tightly but the pushing crowd had still separated them, her grasp slipping until she was swept away.

-

The subway jolts to a stop, a mass of people push him out the doors onto the equally crowded platform. More than two years in the city and he still wasn't used to all the people. Cold stares and empty conversations spill around him. The dim lights overhead shine green against his skin.

His shoes click against the concrete stairs until he's in the open air. Sour hotdogs and a constant stream of noise clutter the street in front of his apartment.

Keys hit the table beside his door with a resounding thud. The path from this spot to his desk is clear, void of the objects that used to litter it. Discarded rocker tees, sheets of paper, various wrappers that shone silver in the light.

Even his desk seems empty without her vinyl covers. He only stares at blank pages now; words haven't crowded the space in endless months. His pen only scratching jumbled codes that pooled black at the ends. A picture of them at the park the last time she was here is tucked into one of the empty drawers.

A whirling noise breaks into his thoughts and red flashing across his white wall briefly before it's gone again.

-

It's September in Los Angeles and he's a year younger. His hair still shows traces of dyed blonde, an experiment he doesn't even remember the reason for trying. Shining like the sunlight that bounces off her golden curls in the morning light. It's cliché to watch someone sleep, but it had become commonplace in his mornings here. He'd get up quietly; she'd roll over and make a low sound before he slipped out the door to get coffee. Then he'd sit in the chair across from her, letting any thought that even fleetingly entered his mind walk across the word pad in his hands.

Every morning was like this, if he lingered in bed too long he felt like he was breaking a sacred tradition, that alone pushed him out of the cotton sheets.

Their visits are becoming farther and fewer in between. She couldn't make the flights out because of work; he couldn't because starving artist was too literal. But every time he stays, he leaves pieces of him behind. Mainly in the form of long treasured books that were worn and frayed on the edges. His favorite chapters earmarked for her to read later. Passages she'd recite to him over the phone, a southern chuckle ringing in his ears.

-

The moment passes and he's jerked back into the present. The warning lights always strike up a memory, the red flashing like the ones she used to fly past to race against her mortality. Testing it to the point of break-down.

He pokes black dots into the edge of his thumb. He wonders when it'll be his turn to melt down into nothing.

It's New York City and nothing has changed in the past year. His lips twist some along with his heart. But in a sense, everything has.

-

Her keys rattle in the lock of her apartment door just as the sky opens up above her, dark and forgiving. The cold drops that split across her skin just as heavy.

She shivers as she pushes her way inside. The small room offering no solace from the torrent shaking the ground outside her windowpane. She rubs her arms and wonders if she'll ever be warm again.

-

It was raining the last time they talked. The wet heat blowing the gauzy curtain into the room, almost independent from the gold chains that held it.

_I can't. I can't. I can't._

The words had echoed in her head, but never escaped her lips. He was saying everything and she was saying nothing that meant anything at all. That was the way it had always been between them, she'd avoid the heart of the matter and he'd strike right into it.

They both felt her hesitation over the line.

_What happens when your dreams die?_

Instead she asked if he'd heard from a publisher yet.

_I feel like my dreams aren't going anywhere._

No would've been an easier answer and she had shifted on her desk chair. The flair up of thoughts still crystallized in her head now traveling over the line. She looked over her shoulder to see if he was standing in the mirror there, his grin easy and loopy like the one he had given her so many years ago. _That's me inside your head. _

_You'll get published Luke, I believe that. _

Her words always lacked the poetry of his, more direct, more blunt. She remembered that night in the gym. She had been jerking up into another cheer that she didn't have any interest in, the crowd roaring in her ears, and the smell of fresh wax mixed with sweaty flesh wafting across her nostrils. He had turned around, sure and abrupt, and said the words that still rang in her ears every time she picked up a pen, _Your art matters. It's what got me here._

It was why she was here, following a different path, a different dream. Because he had believed in her ability to change anything she touched. But the world was just as harsh she had believed it was. He was her only soft spot.

The conversation had lulled there, what she wasn't saying stringing along the line. She had hung up with a low click, knowing if he was going to go anywhere he needed a clean break from her. Because what he believed in, what he saw in her wasn't what was real. She was another LA phony and her job was only dragging her farther away from the girl he had inspired to escape.

-

It's raining when he moves back to Tree Hill.

The irony isn't missed. A ghost of a smile wisps across his lips, they're dreams yet fulfilled and now lost. Drowned out in the torrent slicking across his skin.

In his room, in a frame on his wall is a picture. The first one he remembers her giving him, a crowd of faceless people all wearing black save one in pink standing in the middle. Written across the top in block letters similar to the ones of the texts he still sends her are the words: **THEY ARE NOT YOU.**

She doesn't know the title to his second book shares those words, yet unwritten.

And what he doesn't know is that she's coming home.


	3. Finding Home

**Title:** Finding Home

**Pairing:** Lucas/Peyton (OTH)

**Summary:** Silence stretches between them, but neither moves. Unspoken memories are an electric charge that zaps the air. _Welcome home._ He's always the one to speak first, she's always a second too late. She wonders if it's his pain or hers she sees reflected in his eyes.

**Word Count:** 1,455

**Warnings:** Alludes to plotlines at the end of season four. Takes place sometime after the finale.

**A/N:** This is the third (and last) post season four fic I'm writing before the start of the new season. This one-shot goes more with the previous two and will probably make more sense if you've read the others. With that said it can still stand on its own. I hope everyone who reads can feel and see the characters in this, with their actions and decisions. I tried to stay true the characters as I know and see them. I've enjoyed writing these and I feel like I finally reached a sort of conclusion with not only the stories but the characters with this. Finally stopping the cycle that had been going on in them and in canon. I hope it comes through and you enjoy it.

---------

Raindrops cluster together against her car window, stuck to the smooth surface like glue. Blinking, red colors the crystallized drops and cuts specks across her pale cheek. The bones are jagged and the skin is pulled tight like the grip she has on the grooves of the steering wheel.

A love song blares from the stereo. Bitter and loud, the screaming angst and agony of the emotion is all that she can distinguish. The words are blurred. When the song ends, it loops back to the beginning. She can't tell when it begins again. The pitch and tone never changes, the pain becomes reliable.

She doesn't know why she came back here. Home isn't hers anymore.

-

Rain soaked into her hair, plastering her curls into her eyes. _I can't do this anymore._

It was too hard, being someone else. Pretending nothing had changed. And so far away, he was too far away or maybe she was the one that was too far-gone.

She tried to spin away but he grabbed her arm and forced her eyes to his. _Don't do this. _Beneath the strength was quivering vulnerability, the boy she fell in love with.

_Let me go, Luke. _Beneath the shaking was resolve. Not even his eyes that were on fire with frustration and living pain could deter her from freeing him from the darkness that consumed dreams and never spit them back out.

_I can't. _His fingers softened and the crease in his forehead disappeared, like someone had taken the blur tool and smoothed it over the skin.

_You have to._ She really meant to say please, but the word wasn't in her vocabulary anymore.

His lips burned into hers, the salt of the rain only making them sting on contact. Asking her to give, not to take away from him. Desperation and passion became one in the same, she couldn't tell the difference until his lips pulled from hers. _Come home._

Where was home? It wasn't here, not without him. His breath was against her neck and in her hair; she was always the one with all the outward composure.

She let him leave, thinking she'd follow him back to New York someday.

She had always been a good liar.

-

The windowpane is slick with the rain. Lights outside his bedroom shine yellow, a glow in the distance that doesn't quite reach his face pressed into the cold glass. His eyes still hold a sprinkle of innocence that the city could never touch. Water always deludes the color of his iris', from baby blue to cornflower, but that is the only change in feature.

Silence is his only companion and the gentle tinking of the nails of steady rainfall against the surface of the roof above. The sound rolls over his ears like a sad love song, wordless. Only the piano and cello in the background play a haunting melody, notes that swallow but never crash into the steady beat of the gentle storm.

He doesn't know why it reminds him of her.

-

She sees him across the bridge, a flashback to the days of old, grey hoodies and basketballs that hit the wooden panels flat. If she couldn't see she'd still know it was him, that quiet shifting of his shoes and a hint of pine invading her nostrils.

Suddenly the sunlight beating down on her head feels too hot. The orange rays behind him burn into her eyes.

Silence stretches between them, but neither moves. Unspoken memories are an electric charge that zaps the air.

_Welcome home. _He's always the one to speak first, she's always a second too late.

She wonders if it's his pain or hers she sees reflected in his eyes.

-

He sees her in the café, a flashback to the past, vinyl records and the scent of varnish that always clung to her skin. But she's not the same anymore; her eyes are as empty as her hands and ears. No pen clasped between her fingers. No music filling her atmosphere. Just a sadness that permeates her air, deeper then before.

Suddenly she turns and sees him staring at her through the plate-glass window. Eyes locked, his still bright and hers dim.

He thought his dreams had turned to ash in the years since they were last here, but there were no remnants of hers left. She didn't have to tell him, he just knew, that gut instinct that always clenched his insides around her.

She waves vaguely before turning away. He's always the one that's open and she's always too guarded.

He misses the years that are unwritten.

-

In tiny, compacted letters she writes _I'm sorry_ across the margin of a page in the New Testament. She's only there because Nathan and Haley's new baby girl is getting baptized. Church had never felt like home, but she was adjusting to the feeling.

She glances up and his eyes blaze into hers, like he heard the quiet frustration of her pen on the fragile paper. Inside her head, she can never escape, but for the first time she doesn't want to get away.

Words echo in the near empty room, but they fall on deaf ears. She only feels his eyes warming places in her that had been cold the past two years. A breeze flutters through the stain-glass window and turns the page.

-

He can't remember getting in her car or why.

When she had touched his hand with feather-light fingers he had faded into time. The years had fallen away and they were seventeen again, free and in love for the first time. Their second childhood or maybe it was the first experience.

She drives nowhere for several hours, only silence lays between them. Words leave them too bare, too raw. Wounds inflicted and never healed.

_I'm sorry, Luke._ She finally says, her eyes on the endless road ahead.

He doesn't answer and she doesn't explain, but it feels like a new beginning.

-

That night she draws a girl wading into the water, the waves part around her. The space lets her breathe again.

-

That night he writes about silence, how it's louder then a thousand words. Cliché, but the poetry comes in new waves. The lack of sound helps him see again.

-

_Do you miss New York?_ Her sandwich at her side barely eaten.

He pauses for the breath of a second and in it there is clarity of emotions still undiscovered. _Everyday. _His eyes pierce down into the depths that touch her soul.

Everything was a riddle between them now. Ever since that afternoon, their words have lacked any direct or forward thinking.

The only bite in her stomach hardens and her eyes turn away to see things beyond the invisibility of the air.

_Do you miss music?_ It strums along her veins in cascading or crashing crescendos of vibrating sound everywhere she goes.

_Every day. _

Punctuated and separated. Nothing was ever the way it sounded.

-

His anger. His pain. His fear. All washed away with her return to him.

Seventeen was an age that had marked a turning point and he still feels like he's slowly turning around it. Always coming back to it, always feeling it. It never changes even if they have.

There's no hiding this time, no third party casualties. He's read the pages of his soul and her name still sears across it. Pain is only a burning that stops with the sound of his name quivering on her lips.

His heart is still bleeding out for her, his lips still itch to tell all his secrets.

Nothing stops him, only the subtext and the slow flickering of her dreams burning back to life.

-

In his eyes she sees trust. Warmth. An openness that grabs her insides and twists them around. She feels an old, familiar fear clawing and ripping through her. She's almost desperate to see his pain, but only hers is there now. It's not a wall, it's a fence she can run through.

She wants to back away and flee, but running isn't her right anymore. She forgot how when she came back here. Her dreams are anchoring her down and feelings that never left stay at the surface.

She's home again. Finally back home.

_I love you and I miss you._

Her mouth doesn't have to speak for the words to be reflected out. Always there, just never heard, like the songs that had no words before this moment.

Their lips crush together and their bodies press into one. There's no memory of jumping, no fear of falling. He catches her without effort.

But he doesn't have to. She's ready to stand still.


End file.
